Scarred Man (8 page)

‘You are very brave.'

‘Brave? No, not really,' Slave said with a smile. He was about to add that he was terrified almost all of the time when the child's mother came and gathered her up.

‘Leave him to rest now, Skeve,' the woman said with her eyes on Slave. There was fear in her look, and distrust, but mostly there was anger.

Why anger?
Slave wondered.
What did I do?

‘Make camp here,' Itxtli called. He held his hand up, fist clenched, and the Agents reined in around him. Myrrhini sighed and lowered her head to rest on Chicahua's mane. Her whole body ached from the day's ride, but every day it ached less. She was surprised at how quickly she became accustomed to riding. The ache in her lower back and thighs faded after a few days and the warm clothes, plentiful food and comfortable sleep at night gave her body the opportunity to recover from its recent battering. She even found Itxtli to be good company after the first day. During that day she had been too wrapped up in her pain and misery to pay much attention to the Agents around her, but after a good night's sleep in the tent she felt ready to face her new situation. They rode fast, heading south, but not towards Leserlang.

The campsites were also becoming better since leaving the barren tundra behind. This one had trees for shelter and what looked like a spring of clear water bubbling up from the ground. Myrrhini eased her leg over the saddle and slid down onto the earth. It was no longer frozen underfoot and the
sky was mostly clear blue. The trees now broke the wind up so that it was not a constant biting companion carrying the taste of ancient ice.

Myrrhini started to pull her tent off the back of a pack horse, but stopped at the sounds of an altercation. It was not uncommon for words to be exchanged, even small scuffles from time to time. This one seemed to be about the placement of a tent. One Agent wanted his by a tree and another wanted the same spot. Myrrhini sighed and shook her head. Some of these Agents were like little boys at times.

The tone of the argument changed abruptly and the sound of a fist striking flesh replaced words. Itxtli barked an order and the whole camp fell silent.

‘Youxinatl!' he shouted. ‘Stand firm!'

The small circle of Agents took a step back, isolating the young man who stood in their midst, his chest heaving, his fists clenched and a bruise already forming beneath his right eye.

‘What is this?' Itxtli demanded.

‘Nothing,' Youxinatl muttered.

‘That's an impressive nothing on your face,' Itxtli observed.

‘Walked into a tree.'

A low murmur of a chuckle ran around the Agents, instantly fading at Itxtli's glare.

‘You are a liar, Youxinatl. I will not be lied to.'

Youxinatl looked up, startled.

‘Who hit you? You did not walk into a tree.'

Youxinatl was clearly not going to answer, so Itxtli stepped towards him quickly and struck him across the face.

‘Answer me,' he shouted.

The rest of the men muttered among themselves, but no one stepped forward.

‘Six lashes,' Itxtli said, turning away. ‘I will not be lied to by mayehqueh.'

Myrrhini could not watch as they removed Youxinatl's tunic and bound him to a tree. She walked away to where another Agent was erecting her tent. When she reached the tent, the first of the blows struck the man's bare flesh. The sound was sickeningly wet, followed by a cry of pain. With each blow she winced and Youxinatl cried louder until he was screaming. The Agent who had set up Myrrhini's tent scowled and shook his head with every cry that went up.

‘Coward,' he muttered.

‘What do you mean?' she asked.

‘Six is nothing, but he cries like a baby.'

‘Nothing?'

‘For lying to his achulti, it could have been twenty or thirty, but Itxtli's a good one. He never uses it unjust. That mayehqueh is lucky, but doesn't know it.'

‘Lucky?'

‘He should be in with his own kind, but we were short when we were sent out. So we got one of them. They think they curry mercy from their achultis by whimpering, but not among free men.'

‘I don't understand any of that,' Myrrhini said.

‘It doesn't matter,' the Agent grunted. He stepped away from her tent. ‘Your tent is ready, Lady.'

‘Thank you.' She paused, indicating that she did not know the Agent's name.

‘Necalli, Lady,' the Agent said. ‘My name is Necalli.'

‘Thank you, Necalli.'

‘
Xahnatl yatl
,' Necalli said.

‘I don't know what that means, either,' Myrrhini said.

‘In the old tongue it means something like: “you're welcome” or “it's nothing”.' Necalli walked away, leaving her alone again.

Myrrhini felt useless as she watched the efficient way the Agents went about setting camp, ignoring the whimpering Youxinatl who sat by the spring. Once he had been flogged and then cut down, it was as if the whole incident had never happened. The other tents were set up, a cooking fire was made and the horses were seen to. Every man had a role which he did without apparent instruction.

The sun sank, taking the warmth with it, and the temperature plummeted. Myrrhini wrapped herself in a blanket and sat near the fire. Slowly the rest of the Agents gathered about its warmth and the evening meal was handed around. She had noted that there were three men who tended to do most of the cooking, although there was no dedicated cook as such. A bowl and spoon were given to her and she accepted them with thanks. The Agent who had handed them to her acknowledged her thanks with a grunt, which was more than she usually got from him.

The food was hot and tasty. She ate mechanically, watching and listening. As normal, the conversation was quiet and subdued with little animation. They talked about their homes and families, the people
they had met since leaving and places they had seen. There was little boasting or outrageous story-telling as she expected there might be.

I've read too many romances
, she thought. Certainly she wished, not for the first time, that she had spent more time reading about the world outside the Place of the Acolytes. Every day, it seemed, she discovered something new she had never known about. She felt she must seem very ignorant to the worldly Agents around her.

Overhead, the stars were starting to glimmer. It would be bitter tonight, now that most of the clouds had drifted away. Grada and Yatil were close — kissing in fact. Another Crossing was coming soon. Myrrhini wondered how old this one would make her. She had never known how old she was and no one had ever bothered to tell her such things. She was old enough to bear children, that much she knew, and old enough to make men look at her breasts.
Or maybe they are just looking to see if there are any
, she mused.

‘… we found you?'

Myrrhini looked up suddenly as she realised Itxtli had been speaking to her.

‘What was that?' she asked.

‘I was asking where you were heading when we found you,' Itxtli said.

‘Found me? You didn't find me, you captured me and took me prisoner,' she snapped, suddenly angry. ‘And as your prisoner, I don't think I have to tell you anything.'

Itxtli gave a grunt that sounded halfway between exasperation and resignation as he turned his
attention back to his meal. Myrrhini stared at the fire.

‘Itxtli!' a voice called. ‘It has been too long since we celebrated the Ahuitl.'

A mutter went around the campfire.

‘It is too long, I agree,' Itxtli said. ‘Xipli, prepare the ceremony.' He looked back at Myrrhini. ‘Do not interrupt the ceremony. Just watch.'

Xipli rose from his position by the fire and disappeared into the darkness. Myrrhini sensed an easing in the mood of the gathered men: it seemed they looked forward to this ceremony. Myrrhini wondered if it brought them something good, something worthwhile. She recalled the hateful ceremonies she had had to endure as the Eye of Varuun, how they demeaned and humiliated her, and shuddered.

The night was still for once and the stars glinted in the black sky around Grada and Yatil. Myrrhini shivered. A new smell of burning reached her, making her turn, but Itxtli held her arm, stopping her.

A red glow appeared, quickly becoming a burning torch, carried by Xipli. He walked slowly, holding the torch at arm's length in front of his face. It burned fiercely atop a thick pole, casting dancing shadows. As Xipli stepped into the circle, every Agent started to chant, soft and low at first, but gradually increasing in volume and intensity. Myrrhini tried to pick out words from the chant, but the language was one she had never heard.

Xipli joined the chant, then raised his voice in song as the others lowered theirs into a harmony supporting his song. The two songs wove together
in complex rhythms that rose and fell like the wind as it crossed the great Northern Waste. Itxtli stood from his position and advanced towards Xipli, singing a different tune. This latter was harsh and atonal, jarring to the exquisite harmonies. He reached out and grabbed the torch which, to Myrrhini's astonishment, split into two. When separated the two torches suddenly burned different colours — Xipli's became orange while Itxtli's went bright yellow. Itxtli turned his back on Xipli and held his torch high, still singing the discordant, unpleasant song. Behind him, Xipli lowered his torch until its end rested on the ground. It guttered and went out. Itxtli turned back to Xipli and together they walked to the very edge of the circle and plunged both torches into a bucket that had been placed there at some stage. It must have contained an oil or something similar because it immediately burst into red flame, consuming both torches. When the torches were burned away, the fire extinguished itself. All the time Itxtli had been singing his discordant song while the rest had been singing their complex harmonies, but as the flames vanished completely, both songs died, leaving a moment of silence before Youxinatl rose and sang a simple melody. It was just a short song, in a pure high voice that was quite at odds with his uncouth appearance and previous behaviour. When he was done, he sat down.

‘The Eye has Seen what the Queen has glimpsed, and all the world trembles,' Itxtli intoned.

‘Let the Eye be opened and the Queen be freed,' the rest said in response.

In the dark and silence that followed, Myrrhini trembled, but not from the chill night air. This ceremony held great meaning and although she did not understand most of it, the symbolism and the closing words were not lost on her. She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugged them to her chest and tried to push out of her mind what she now knew must happen.

‘He is strong enough now,' Kirri said, looking at Slave. ‘He can harvest, earn his care.'

Slave stood beside Kirri, silently watching the exchange. He had known it would come to this soon. His strength had returned and he was becoming restless here in this dark tent where silent eyes watched him all day and rowdy men plotted their challenges to him at night. Had he been asked, he could not have said how he knew the men of the tribe planned to do him harm, but their violence was only a heartbeat away.

Vasilis nodded. ‘Sssa,' he hissed finally. ‘We move today. Prepare to leave.' At his words the tension in the natona faded. Kirri laid her right hand, palm upwards, in her left and bowed. Slave followed suit.

The whole tribe started moving, each one attending to their allocated task. In moments, the whole natona was a hive of activity. Slave stood as the people moved around him. The chaos swirled.

A slap on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. He looked quickly around to see Kirri glaring at him.

‘Don't just stand there,' she snapped. ‘You owe the tribe now. Make yourself useful.'

‘What do you want me to do?'

Her eyes tightened. ‘Just come with me,' she said after a short pause.

Kirri's job was to pack up the various powders and herbs she used for healing, get them loaded onto a horse and then help with the taking down and rolling up of the natona. Slave followed her lead, taking care not to spill any of the rare supplies as he stored them in the leather bags cleverly made with pockets for each container. Sondelle had instructed him in more than rudimentary healing, but he did not recognise most of what Kirri had accumulated.

The natona was made of many heavy pieces of leather stitched together and stretched over the support poles. There were dozens of ropes holding the poles in place and it was immediately clear that erecting and dismantling it was a job requiring the total cooperation of everyone in the tribe. Vasilis was in command, shouting instructions and gesticulating, ensuring that every time the big tent looked like getting out of control in the howling winds, someone was on hand to help. The sun was nearly at its peak by the time everything was packed onto horses and ready to leave. The cague flock was marshalled into the middle of the tribe and, like a cumbersome beast, the tribe started to move.

They walked for days, sleeping huddled together under simple leather shelters, foraging whatever grew in their path. The cague nibbled incessantly at the frozen ground to get at the hardy plants that
somehow survived beneath the ice. Every man carried a heavy pick with which he chipped at the ground in search of the elusive mangase. The wind was worse than Slave had ever imagined possible. It screamed around them like a living thing: tearing at their clothes, freezing any part that was exposed. At one stage, Kirri was lifted completely off the ground. Slave was lost in his thoughts — mostly cursing such a wretched place while disbelieving that anyone would possibly choose to live in it — when she cannoned heavily into him. He was taken entirely by surprise and staggered under the impact. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight while he tried to regain his balance.

‘Are you hurt?' Slave shouted over the wind.

‘I am fine,' Kirri yelled. ‘Put me down!'

Slave lowered her to the ground. Even with her bulky layers of clothes, she was slight, but Slave could not feel anything of her body beneath them. Her eyes, the only part of her face that was visible, glared at him with an expression he could not hope to read. She tugged at her yok with mittened hands before taking two struggling steps away from him. Slave watched her as she continued to strive, leaning into the wind, walking south-east with the tribe. He shook his head and tried not to think about Waarde standing naked beneath the sheltering trees, and then lying torn and bloody on the frozen ground. His hand sought the outline of the Claw where it lay, safely tucked beneath his own layers of clothes. Something like hatred stirred before he took his hand away and focused on fighting against the wind.

Just before the sun gave up its battle against the
clouds, a cry cut across the wind. Everyone stopped and several men made their way to where a man was waving his pick in the air excitedly. A crowd gathered around him quickly. Vasilis joined them and was admitted into the middle of the crowd.

‘What is that all about?' Slave asked Kirri.

‘Jalmar might have found mangase,' Kirri said.

‘And if he has?'

‘We set camp here. Mangase is always found in patches.'

Vasilis strode back towards the circle of horses, holding something above his head.

‘Now we see,' Kirri said quietly. In her excitement, she had moved close and was gripping his arm. Slave looked down at her, but she was too focused on the unfolding events to notice. Vasilis carried the stone to where the oldest man in the tribe was sitting on a horse — the only person to be riding. When Vasilis stood beside the horse, brandishing the stone, the old man slowly dismounted. He shook uncontrollably; his hands, legs and head all seemed to be wobbling of their own accord. Vasilis had to help him down from the horse and then support the old man as he guided him to a large, thick blanket laid on the frozen ground.

With much trembling and unsteadiness, the old man was helped down onto the blanket. When he was settled, a small brazier was lit and placed in front of him. The stone was laid reverently in his shaking hands.

‘Who is that?' Slave asked. He found himself caught up in the tension of the moment as the whole tribe focused intently on the shaking man.

‘Sisu; he will decide whether it is mangase.'

‘How?'

‘Shhh, just watch.'

In spite of his uncontrolled shaking, Sisu managed to wrestle the stone into a heavy ceramic bowl and began pounding on it with a solid hammer. Even though most of his blows missed both the stone and the bowl, no one stepped up to help him. After an excruciating length of time, during which Slave felt his feet going numb and Kirri's hand tightening on his arm, the old man put the hammer aside.

Kirri's grip became claw-like and Slave looked down at her again. It seemed that she had stopped breathing as she watched Sisu take up a pinch of the powder he had chipped off the stone and sprinkle it into the flame. A sigh went through the tribe as the flame turned brilliant green for a moment.

‘A good sign,' Sisu called in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘Often the green flame comes first.'

He reached down and took up a second pinch of powder. Theatrically, he sprinkled the powder into the flame. The tribe burst into shouts and cheers as the flame went distinctly yellow-green. Kirri leapt up and threw her arms around Slave exuberantly.

‘We will cast a shadow here and harvest,' Kirri told him. ‘If this is a good harvest we will head to Leserlang to trade.' Her face was close to his and their eyes met. In her eyes, Slave could see his own face reflected. The silver orb seemed to be glowing softly with its own light. Afraid of what that might presage, he pushed Kirri away and stepped back
from her. She stared at him as though he had struck her before turning to begin setting camp. Slave watched her go before seeking out Vasilis to offer what help he could.

The wind was less as they heaved the leather tent up over the wooden supports but it still caught at the shelter, sending it snapping and whipping about. It took all of Slave's strength to hold his end steady while others laced it into place. The cague flock was herded into the lee of the tent where they continued their never-ending foraging. By the time the camp was set and everyone was safely inside, it was well after dark. Slave looked around for Kirri and saw she was deeply involved in a conversation with some other women. He was unsure what he should do. He felt that he needed to speak with her, but was not sure why. Something nagged at him, yet he did not understand what. He toyed with interrupting her, but the group of women looked closed and unwelcoming.

A hand grasped his shoulder. Slave looked around sharply to see Vasilis offering him a handful of hardened cague milk.

‘You work well, Slave,' Vasilis said. ‘Tomorrow, I will show you how to harvest the mangase — then you will know real work.'

Slave nodded and accepted the unappetising morsel. ‘Where do I sleep?' he asked. With Kirri leaving him alone, he realised he had no bed of his own.

Vasilis frowned. ‘I will see to a bed roll. You can unroll it and sleep wherever you please. But,' he added, ‘I would stay away from the edge of the natona until you get used to the cold.'

‘Used to the cold? Where do you think I slept before I met you?'

Vasilis considered this. ‘Fair enough. Sleep where you want.' He began to walk away but Slave grabbed his arm.

‘What manner of magic was that?'

‘Magic?'

‘The old man, Sisu. What manner of magic did he do?'

‘Old magic. Magic that dates back to before the Eleven Kingdoms. Wild magic that only we who live free of the kingdoms understand.'

‘So you don't know, then.'

‘You, Slave,' Vasilis stabbed a bony finger into his chest, ‘are too clever for your own good. I think I should either start confiding in you, or put you outside to freeze.' He gave a lopsided grin as he spoke, as if to soften his words, but Slave was unsure what to believe — the words or the face. ‘Find a place,' Vasilis continued. ‘I will send a blanket to you.'

The ‘blanket' was a large fur-lined bag, stitched on three sides. Slave unrolled it and slid into it. Inside, he felt warmer than he had in many days. So warm, in fact, that after a while he removed some of his outer layers of clothing. Sleep came slowly, but was deep and comfortable when it arrived.

 

He was awakened by the noise of people starting their day. Now that he was away from Kirri, he was more aware of the others — their sounds, their smells, their looks and their hushed words. There was no anger in their eyes now, but still there was
distrust. He clambered out of his bag and pulled on his yok before joining the slow movement towards the door that would take them out into the brutal cold.

The sun shone weakly in a pale blue sky. The wind had almost died, leaving the morning crisp and clear. Slave's breath steamed out, white and billowing. Ahead was a large cauldron hanging over a fire. Jaan, the cook, was ladling out food into everyone's leather bowls. When it was Slave's turn Jaan gave him a spare bowl. Slave took the steaming meal and walked away to eat alone. The soup was thick, rich with meat and fat. Warmth spread throughout his body as he ate.

‘Ready to earn that meal?' Vasilis asked.

Slave finished the soup and held Vasilis's eye. ‘Show me how.'

Vasilis handed Slave a short-handled, heavy pick. The handle was wood, the head some kind of dark metal. Slave hefted it, his mind going instinctively to its effectiveness as a weapon.
Close-quarters, obviously. Too heavy, too short for subtle work. Body blows mainly. This in the right hand, the Claw in the left, close grappling. Nice. Claw over the top, this thing coming in from underneath. Very nice. How about this coming over the top, using its weight on the skull with the Claw slashing up through the gut?
He practised wielding it, using his wrist and shoulder to control its naturally clumsy feel.

‘It's not a weapon, Slave.'

Slave gave Vasilis a steely gaze. ‘Everything is a weapon, Vasilis.'

Vasilis shuddered and stepped back. ‘Let me show you how to use it properly first.'

‘You have never fought with it?'

‘Out here, you run first.'

‘Why?'

Vasilis shook his head. ‘Talk later. Daylight is short and we need every moment.'

The work was easy enough, if tedious and back-breaking. Vasilis's instructions were similarly simple. Mangase lumps were to be found under the ice layer, so the pick was used to break the ice then lever the sheet up. The heavy metal head was used like a spike, shoved into the hard earth and stirred around until it hit something else metallic. At this point, digging took over and the object was harvested. Any mangase was stored in a sack that dangled from a hook sewed into every yok. Now that the tribe had set camp, just about every man, woman and child was out scouring the ground for the elusive little rocks. Even those who did not carry the picks sat on heavy blankets in the sun and scrabbled in the dirt.

Slave walked away from the natona and selected a patch of ground that was not near where anyone else was working. At first, he randomly attacked the ice at his feet, but he quickly saw how the others worked systematically around the natona. He recognised the efficiency in the method and adopted the same approach.

By the time the sun reached its peak, he had explored an area about twice his height by roughly half that. He had found a patch of tough lichen and several brown rocks, but no mangase. The cague
had apparently smelt the lichen and he was buffeted by several of the hardy beasts as they devoured the morsels he had uncovered for them. Slave straightened up and stretched his complaining back. He looked towards where the rest of the tribe were working around the natona. A number of them caught his eye and nodded a greeting. He returned the gesture, unsure what it meant after the way he had been regarded earlier.

There was no break in the day's toil until the sun slid down towards the horizon. Mercifully, the wind had been light all day, barely rising above a breeze. Slave stood stiffly and patted the pouch at his side. He had found three lumps of what he thought was mangase during the day. By the entrance to the natona, a child held out a larger leather bowl into which every likely find was dumped, to be examined later by Sisu.

Slave dropped his three finds and walked on past, following his nose to the evening meal. It was another rich soup and he ate with hunger and enjoyment. His body ached from the day's labours, muscles protesting at the unaccustomed exertions.

‘Good day?' a voice asked.